


simple & sweet

by a_static_world



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fluff and Humor, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Ish?? - Freeform, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Miscommunication, Sweet, Whump, because that's how he should be, for trying to fight a mage, geralt is bad at judging the fragility of humans, jaskier loses his calluses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:56:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27128893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_static_world/pseuds/a_static_world
Summary: "C'mere."The witcher gestures for his hand, and Jaskier warily extends it- the one he’d most recently wiped off. Geralt frowns, turns his hand this way and that, and then does the unimaginable.He slaps Jaskier’s raw, newly-callus-free hand.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 197





	simple & sweet

**Author's Note:**

> hi! mild tw for blood- no graphic descriptions, but jaskier's hands are bleeding for a majority of this fic

Fuck, his fingers fucking  _ hurt.  _

Jaskier isn’t a whiner. He wasn’t raised that way; he was, after all, the son of a Viscount. No whingeing or complaining allowed.  _ Your lot is your lot _ , as his father was fond of saying, and Jaskier shudders to remember it. His lot was his lot, whether it entailed burning his tongue or his sisters cheating at Gwent or being disowned at sixteen, told never to return on pain of imprisonment. All for being caught with the stableboy.

Life with Geralt, too, taught him that complaints get you nowhere.  _ Threats _ , perhaps, but never self-centered groaning. There’s just no use, even when your feet are rubbed bloody and the damned witcher bastard refuses to rest for the night. So Jaskier grimaces and moves on, shoves scraps of old cloth in all the places where his boots rub until the leather molds to his feet. Enough time passes, eventually, that they begin to pick up on each other’s more nonverbal cues. Geralt stops Roach just as Jaskier feels a blister burst, and Jaskier repays him by laying out bedrolls, earning coin, or making their meals. 

But right now, Melitele a-fucking-bove, his fingers hurt. There’d been an altercation with a mage, a week ago.  _ His _ altercation; Geralt peacefully slept (or whatever he did) in their room as Jaskier attempted to break the mage’s nose for insinuating that witchers were little more than animals. That had cost him both the integrity of his own nose  _ and  _ the removal of every callus on his hands. He’d almost cried, then, rubbing a thumb over the newly-smoothed fingertips before launching back at the mage. Geralt had come down before he’d gotten himself killed, but the loss of his calluses ached.

Literally.

Those calluses were at least a decade old, strengthened and ripped and renewed over the years until he’d almost lost feeling in his fingertips. And they were  _ essential _ for playing the lute. So, naturally, he’s spent the last week playing as often as he can, scales and ballads and melodies and whatever pops into his head. It’s impossible to regrow a callus in a week, but they’re coming up on a major city, and Jaskier can’t miss the opportunity to line his - their - pockets. His fingers are bleeding again, though, so he sets down the lute, wincing as he stretches them out and fumbles for a cloth. 

Geralt, meditating across the fire, cracks an eye as Jaskier rustles around. 

“Bard.”  
“Witcher, dear?”

“What are you doing?”

“Well, you see, my fingers are rather raw.” Jaskier extends the shredded digits towards the now alert witcher, roused from his half-slumber by the noise and now by the scent of blood.  _ Took him long enough _ , Jaskier thinks, and returns to digging through his pack with his less-bloody hand. 

“C’mere.”

“What?”

“C’mere.”

Jaskier’s brow furrows. He shuffles over to Geralt’s side of the fire, taking care not to knock over the cord of firewood and Geralt’s pack. He crouches by the witcher, who shifts himself into more of a sitting position from where he leaned against his log. The witcher gestures for his hand, and Jaskier warily extends it- the one he’d most recently wiped off. Geralt frowns, turns his hand this way and that, and then does the unimaginable.

He  _ slaps Jaskier’s raw fucking hand _ .

Jaskier yelps, snatching his hand away and nearly falling into the fire. A quickly placed other hand saves his ass from being flame-broiled, but then  _ that _ hand starts to sting. Wonderful. He’s got one hand beginning to bleed again, thanks to Geralt, and there’s dirt in the shredded skin of the other. He sits down heavily, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to control his breathing. He’s no stranger to pain, but Melitele fucking  _ above _ . 

“Shit, Jaskier, I’m sorry-”

His hands are still stinging, but they’ve subsided enough that he can form a sentence. He opens his eyes to find Geralt, who’d clearly been holding in a laugh, suddenly looking guilty, an emotion Jaskier honestly wasn’t aware he could feel. He doesn’t feel bad; Geralt  _ slapped his bleeding hands _ , but he does realize that it was an attempt at camaraderie. 

“It’s- well, it’s not fine, that fucking _hurt_ , but I forgive you. Just so long as you have some super-healing witcher potion to rub into my tender digits.”  
He wiggles said digits at Geralt, earning him a flash of pain and a slight look of relief from the witcher. He’s not mad at Geralt, honestly. He loves him too much for that. Geralt holds aloft a light-blue vial from his pack, and Jaskier scoots closer. The witcher pours some kind of oil into his hands, and any lingering annoyance melts as Geralt massages it into his palms and fingers, touch feather-light and tender. 

Jaskier lets his eyes fall closed again, trying desperately not to groan as Geralt kneads rough thumbs into the meat of his palm. There’s an intimacy here, an unspoken that he’s fine to let hang. The air smells fire-smoky and sweet from the oil, and the whole world narrows down to the feeling of Geralt’s hands on his, along with the occasional twinge of pain. This, he thinks. This and only this, for as long as he’ll let me. Smoky fires and sweet oil and pain and pleasure and love, in at least some capacity. 

Geralt rubs his hands for probably longer than he needs to, moving from palms to wrists and even forearms, working out sore spots and tense muscles with a touch that just borders on too light. Neither of them say anything, and for once, Jaskier is content in the silence. He thanks Geralt when he eventually pats his palms - gentle, this time - to signal that he’s finished. They remain mostly silent for the rest of the night, Jaskier flipping through a novel he’d picked up a few towns back and Geralt filling in new pages of his bestiary. 

If Geralt shifts his bedroll a little closer in the night, and if Jaskier turns to face him while they sleep, well. That’s their business, and he falls asleep with pain-free hands. 

**Author's Note:**

> hello! i am getting things done! going through my wips and such!  
> for more jaskier/joey batey content and witcher s2 speculations (along with a healthy sprinkling of merlin/hannibal/vikings content) come find me on [tumblr!](https://astaticworld.tumblr.com/)  
> also this is absolutely 100% an idea i stole from an unus annus video ([oddconstellation](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoddconstellationofthoughts) you're welcome)  
> i hope you are all doing well and staying safe and wearing your goddamn masks,  
> static <3


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